In Soviet Russia, Jokes Never Get Old!

Meet the Spartans (2008)

Rating ... F (9)

Since I already suffered through Date Movie and later endeavored to document everything about Epic Movie that made it as god-awful and as nearly unwatchable as Date Movie, I figure I'm not obligated to go to any great lengths to disparage Meet the Spartans in a full review, which as you've probably surmised is essentially the same film as the aforementioned, because let's face it: as radically divergent as epics, rom-coms, and shitty blue-screen testosterone wankfests should be, in the world of directors Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer, it's easy for genres to blend together in the engulfing void of flatulence jokes and rehashing of pop culture au courants like Brad Pitt, Paris Hilton, and that emo wanker who defended Miss Spears in an annoying bout of down-the-highway-not-across-the-street sob-storying. (Somehow, "don't tase me bro!" failed to make the cut. Thank God?) This time around, what amazes me about the the franchise's unbelievable tackiness is not how the humor reeks of predictable fratboy-ism (by three movies, I'm almost completely desensitized) but rather how the movie cranks out its jokes with the rapidity nowadays associated with failed animated Shrek clones. Of course, Meet the Spartan's dizzying speed does little else besides elevate it out of the realm of Date Movie, which was essentially one unending, unfunny joke initiated by the most dismal, cinematic rape-equivalent credit sequences in recent memory. When jokes don't last as long, you accumulate more of them, naturally, but it's the lesser of two evils, and aside from an irrelevant, inflated Grand Theft Auto parody Meet the Spartans achieves (relative) painlessness. Which isn't to say the movie does something other than flat-out suck, unfortunately; in this case the arsenal of bodily fluid and Sylvester-Stallone-is-old, Paris-Hilton-is-ditsy jokes has merely been expanded to include dull, obvious commentary on 300, in this case limited to despite how last March's binge of Spartan cock-swinging could easily be construed as the crusade of a number of manly men to obliterate the gays (see Rue Paul as Xerxes, etc), in reality the whole shebang was unavoidably gay itself. So, in other words ... no shit? Thus we, the audience, have to pay for the privelige of witnessing directors Friedberg and Seltzer's wack-off session of their own? I'm hesistant to even label these guys directors; if I did that I might have to start referring to DJ "Ass 'n' Titties" Assault as a composer.


Wall * E (2008)

Rating ... B- (59)

[ Editor's Note: In anticipation of impending - and deserved - inquiries on why something as quaint as The Air I Breathe receives a review of reasonable length yet Wall*E is allotted just a blurb, I feel obligated to mention the extensiveness of a review is generally dependent on how much free time I have, which is a shame when you consider that... ]

Quite simply, Wall * E is just about the most dazzling spectacle a film-goer could hope to witness, given current technology. Classy and elegant even when held to Pixar's own lofty standards and reinvigorated with the studio's chuckle-inducing brand of visual verve (a feature in short supply during Cars, seemingly replaced with a sort of labored antiquatedness - a regretable setback for an otherwise solid movie), it comes as nothing short of a complete shock when cave-art credits roll and Wall * E still manages to feel like an overly pointed - if lavish - exercise in green-friendly politicking. But first, the good. Disregarding the fluently meticulous animation scarcely worth describing when compared to the experience of witnessing it oneself, we begin with Wall * E, a doe-eyed, robotic Omega Man left behind after humans trashed the place and split - their stay on the planet at this point reduced to a 12,000-year smash and grab. Designed to process heaps of trash into cubic modules, Wall * E puts the material to use constructing buildings as a Pueblo would with adobe bricks - the first of several scenes that accentuate the industrious, good-earth values of ancient cultures. The counterpoint to this observation develops as Wall * E finds himself bemused by trinkets he discovers while sifting through junk, the appeal of which mystifies him as it clashes with his objective-based programming. Before long a member of the next series of Earth surveillence bots - EVE, Extra-Terrestrial Vegetation Evaluator, to be precise - arrives and on account of the whole, uh, opposite robotic gender thing, Wall * E finds himself enamored, despite his potential mate's purely functional nature. Yet another aspect better left unspoiled for viewers, the wonderment of the subplot is nevertheless expressed in a single, magical shot, the lyrical sensibility of which compares to even the best in the Pixar armada. Shortly before leaving the planet, Wall * E must replace his injured eye-piece with an interchangeable part, and while adjusting the piece in its socket the POV switches to Wall * E's eye-cam while his gaze is fixed on EVE. The maiden robot appears unfocused, as an angelic blur - perhaps the blossoming of a potential relationship but undoubtedly the pinnacle of the film's take on human desire, passed down to Wall * E via a remnant, old Earth movie musical.

Unfortunately, director Andrew Stanton's transition from this euphoric carelessness into environmental (ir)responsibility and eco-friendly behavior as it relates to humans is only fractionally potent. The most obvious qualm is simply: why are humans even in this film? Both literally and figuratively a ham-fisted presence in the story (though admittedly the root of a couple big laughs), Stanton's take on the course of humanity is that their planar disregard has catapulted them into extreme lethargy, now simply an unambitious presence in gelatinous form, reduced to being zipped around on high-tech chairs and mindlessly diverted by television, advertising, and promises of luxuriousness and gratification. (Ummmmmm, robots you could say!) The jump Stanton posits here transcends being unreasonable and finds itself in rather sadistic territory, basically insinuating that given everything, humans would then proceed to do absolutely nothing, which is at best an unlikely scenario especially when considering the personal ambition of, for starters, how about everybody on the team at Pixar? (Maybe Idiocracy should be a prerequisite viewing - it might prepare viewers for the mindset!) While the resolution to Wall * E proves to be less insightful than the buildup as humans prosaically rediscover purpose and even the charming robot romance ends with what's essentially an elaborate fakeout, little could undo the first hour's exceptional understanding of human yearning. So it would seem Pixar was the first to make something fundamentally didactic still feel like poetry; who could've seen that coming?

Credit Where Credit is Due Dept: Any old-school gamers recognize the style of the opener? If not, you should!


Nim's Island (2008)

Rating ... C+ (44)

Truthfully, I'm disappointed. Given the pedigree, I went in expecting Blue Lagoon done - y'know - better and exited baffled at the resulting tug-of-war between half-formed ideas, the likes of which are shuffled about with the fervor of a kid with the shakes. "Be the hero of your own story!" sez the tagline (it's not quite Bruce Almighty but the thematic territory may as well be), simultaneously preaching to children and placating to adults on unexplored issues of empowerment. The notion arises twice during the film, first when islander Nim (Abigail Breslin) holds the fort from a band of money-grubbing oarsmen moonlighting as venture capitalists scheming to terraform the island into a tourist trap. (Bewilderingly, one of them drops a candy wrapper on the ground, aligning himself against Breslin and her paradise untouched by civilization ... well, untouched except for that high-speed internet connection she uses to e-mail Jodie Foster, oops.) When Nim goes Home Alone on their asses the subplot takes a hike, giving the character little to do except wallow in misery until her missing father arrives home on his own accord (yes, this directly contradicts her budding initiative), the story plows forward - undeterrred by this early climax - with Foster's agoraphobic adventure novelist (the two are linked because Nim reads her books and the two employ her fantasy world as a method to dodge reality) picking up the slack as she treks out to protect Nim from the invaders. Unfortunately the strand actually fails to interact with her original intent in the slightest and inexplicably serves to misappropriate how severe mental conditions can simply melt away.

Part of the problem is the film's broad appeal, which is comprised of numerous elements ranging from slapstick comedy to storybook fantasy to household drama. Nim's Island never truly takes the plunge into any of them, and its cold feet prove fatal because here, specializing in nothing produces tepidness in everything. (Arguably, tone is one of the most crucial elements to a kidpic because moods can be universally felt; regardless of whether it's your cup of tea, the all-or-nothing tones of some of the industry leaders - i.e. the playful jest of Sky High, the bouncy effeminacy of Aquamarine, and the plainness of Nancy Drew - implicitly acknowledge how sheltered its protagonists began the story, and such deviations from the norm again, without words, stress when things were reaching a breaking point.) What's really a shame here is that Flackett and Levin exhibit a talent for protagonist perspective (carried over from Little Manhattan), if not visual perspective (a plea for desperation ... cue aerial cam), but squander their expertise with inelegant dialogue that pointedly explains all things dramatic and thematic. In other words, why condescend audiences to be their own hero when you're just going to hold their hand along the way?


Jumper (2008)

Rating ... C- (28)

With good reason, nobody respects Jumper. Other notoriously frivolous films like Clueless earn their merit through gradual understanding and tradeoffs but Jumper, another fluff piece from Doug Liman (Mr. and Mrs. Smith, The Bourne Identity), wallows wantonly in unchecked self-gratification. In this limp superhero offering, we get the blindingly obvious - that with great power comes great fun - and soon thereafter, Jumper jumps into the position of the year's most forgettable film.

Hayden Christensen is a Jumper, meaning he can teleport anywhere he pleases, and after years of selfish application of the ability (as evidenced by his disregard for flood victims on the six o' clock) he encounters another Jumper who explains their existence is more austere than it looks. Religious fanatics called Paladins pursue Jumpers for no discernable reason besides generic fervor ("Only God deserves this power!" sez Samuel L., twice) and it is explained to Christensen that he shouldn't act so flippantly with his power, actions have conseqeunces, etc. Naturally this clashes with Christensen's "nothing's off-limits!" mentality, so the film endeavors to change his way of thinking. Thus, Christensen proceeds to jump to his old high-school flame's residence, whisk her to Rome, prevaricate about his existence, endanger her life, and implore her multiple times to "Stay right here!" while he and his friend clean up the pesky Paladins, generously showing restraint by not jumping them to the middle of a large body of water, but mostly just reiterating that teleportation is ridiculously awesome and now that Jumpers are no longer being persecuted it's once again possible to have everything you want as soon as you want it. It's Jumper, it's jumping to a theatre near you, and it's as self-indulgent as the powers it showcases.


Mad Money (2008)

Rating ... F (5)

Is Mad Money the most morally reprehensible film ever made? Perhaps not, but one has to give credit in the only place credit is due: it sure tries. In a nutshell, Diane Keaton, Queen Latifah and Katie Holmes rob the federal bank that employs them as janitors, spend lavishly, receive a wrist slap for their blatant thievery, and ultimately prove money is in fact awesome and any illicit method of absconding with some of this green gratification would certainly boost your standard of living. What this tidy summary omits, however, is the incredible laziness and contemptibility Mad Money assigns to its heroines' plight. Let's ignore that the entire premise is predicated off being able to switch locks on bank money carts (which conveniently happen to be such a common model you could buy a replacement at Home Depot) and stuff cash in the trash to smuggle out at the end of the shift. This leaves us with Mad Money's insufferable ethos, a sentiment that simply reads stealing is 100% justified if you're in need. Of course, Diane Keaton's definition of economic need is that her luxuriant lifestyle has placed herself and her husband $286,000 in debt, which once established exculpates her in advance for stealing the money needed to resolve her massive liabilities. (This action is defined to be socially responsible behavior, anything past this point could be construed - could be! - as greed, the movie says.) To further add to the film's absurd detestability, after this bourgeoisie spends her way into and steals her way out of the hole, all the while complaining about folks at her bank job don't bestow proper respect on the prolies (at the same time, her husband offers grossly offensive statements like "We could survive upper-middle class for a while!"), the feds finally arrive and the perpetrators come away from everything scot-free. "Crime is contagious," explains Diane Keaton, "when people catch it, they change!" To be honest, I have absolutely no clue how this glib observation relates to Mad Money, which by all objective standards is little more than a totem to Hollywood's consistently noxious ideas on glamour and glitz.


The Forbidden Kingdom (2008)

Rating ... C+ (50)

The Forbidden Kingdom should have been something special. Not only the industry's first pairing between Jackie Chan and Jet Li but also the year's only notable Wuxia film (unlike hordes of annual rom-coms, period dramas, and horror flicks, since Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon we seem to average about one of these per year, e.g. 2005 - Seven Swords, 2006 - Curse of the Golden Flower), it's probably unfair but also inevitable to burden The Forbidden Kingdom with such heavy expectations, especially considering what the film actually delivers is thoroughly watchable (code for "there are tons of action seqeunces") but dishearteningly average.

Comprised of input from two different countries, it's no surprise The Forbidden Kingdom feels diluted, even if there is a significant imbalance in the contribution. The narrative resembles Journey to the West, materially occurs in Tang Dynasty China, and features Chinese martial arts as well as cast members Jet Li, Jackie Chan, Yifei Liu, and others. The West's hand in the film, however, appears to be limited to post-production, along with Michael Anagarano's inessential role, which as a typical adolescent fanboy who bootlegs Bruce Lee movies and gets beaten up by bullies (only to reciprocate the punishment after learning kung-fu in his journey, because no bully in the history of film has ever made it out unscathed so why start now, begging the question did American writers really suffer this much persecution as kids?) really only serves as a bridge to reintroduce audiences to the genre. Dubious Hollywood conceits (Kingdom features yet another WM/AF pairing - I'll never figure out why Asian males are routinely left out of the loop) compete for heft with laudable ideas (Jet Li's Monkey King, an assured portrait of bored, restless immortality taunts people for self-amusement until the film reaffirms instruction / tutelage to be the most fulfilling use of the ability) while the film's hearty fight scenes only partially mitigate mediocre storytelling. That every character explains themselves and occasionally their history upon introduction may signal a lack of elegance, but in the case of The Forbidden Kingdom it's mostly just proof that reincarnating Wuxia is difficult when you have to remind audiences it exists in the first place.


21 (2008)

Rating ... D+ (19)

21 aims for cinematic hypnosis because those who aren't entranced by its slick cinematography and parlor-trick psychology will figure out pretty quickly that rehashing and dramatizing headlines is the best the film can muster. In fact, the same thin appeal could be likened to Blackjack, the eponymous form of gambling so absurdly simple it can actually fail at taking money from people if played properly. And if you're incredibly unaware, you might even miss that where the two coincide is that in the end, they both end up with your dough.

Kevin Spacey plays Mickey Rosa, a guy who teaches MIT whiz kids how to demolish the house at 21. During class, he arbitrarily (a big, big word in this case meaning LITERALLY FOR NO DISCERNABLE REASON) gives student and prospective casino-buster Ben the old game-show host problem to determine if he's got the mathematical prowess to tackle big-time Blackjacking. (In other words, we have an ivy league math professor who thinks the correct response to this trite riddle constitutes - in his own words - "genius.") Ben solves it, and just like that he's in, ready to study the highly effective habits of Blackjack-breaking individuals. All you have to do is bet the minimum and keep a mental count of the high and low cards that come down (minus one and plus one, respectively), giving your partner the sign to sit when the table is hot, or at a high value. Of course, you'll need a special method to silently divulge what the count is, so you'll probably use the system depicted in the movie where you let slip an offhand comment that numerically pertains to the count. For example, if the table's at +17 you could ramble about how you visited this place because you read about it in a magazine. (Seventeen is a magazine, see!) Now if the table was at +9, you would have to relate that to "cat," because cats have nine lives. (No doubt an ordinary query like "Are you a cat?") I mean, simple, right? If you believe that, you're probably more inclined to ignore the film's archetypal rise-and-fall trajectory where Ben, who originally only needs the money for Harvard med, spins out of control as he brings in the big bucks (which he accumulates despite doing dumbass-ish things like never wearing a disguise while all of his peers do, keeping his MIT student ID in his wallet beside his fake one, and stashing his winnings in the ceiling above his bed even though his friends walk in on him closing it up), which elicits interminable second-act voiceover narration ("I could be ANYONE I wanted!") that painstakingly literalizes the split between his meek MIT and macho Vegas gambler personas. Ben flies to Sin City every weekend, meaning he can never see his loser pals because he's gone for two whole days, and after he's confronted about it - as if on cue! - he begins to lose big because it fits with the movie's wishy-washy notions on greed. (At least Jumper was clear from square one...) Things eventually pan out for Ben, and the last scene serves merely to expose the film's hollow charm. "Did I dazzle you?" asks Ben of the finicky Robinson scholarship recruiter who's now heard his entire fable. I don't know, punk... Are you a cat?


Horton Hears a Who! (2008)

Rating ... B- (52)

After the twin debacles of The Cat in the Hat and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, there's nowhere to go but up, up, and away for the cinematic Dr. Seuss franchise. Horton Hears a Who! may be too fervent in its repeated advocacy of minority rights - "a person's a person, no matter how small!" - and too languid in its loftier attempts at waxing philosophical, but you can't really argue with better quality. Or rather, you can, but it's probably not a good idea.

Horton is an elephant whose gargantuan pair of ears have gotten him into a seemingly existential quandry. While galavanting in the forest Horton stumbles across Whoville, a tiny settlement that fits on the wisp of a dandelion. After a brief exchange between himself and the mayor, the two come away with similar aims: prove to their respective societies the reality of the other, since the Who's have trouble accepting the existence of something as otherworldly large as Horton while Horton's pals don't believe anything they can't "see, hear, or feel." It's easy to envision several figurative uses for the scenario but the film doesn't seem too keen on substantiating many of them. Understandably the central plight appeals on a theological basis but it's difficult to entertain Horton as spiritual debate when the deity figure is never in doubt. Likewise, the film appears concerned with differing perspective, the simplicity of which is wonderfully illustrated during a scene where Steve Carell condescends to his son's notions of having a future doing something other than following in his dad's footsteps. As Carell glances at his son through several stacked glasses of water - he's ferrying it to his 96 kids, all of whom are thirsty - he sees the boy beaming back at him, though when he whisks away the water the film reveals his kid's countenance is actually a quizzical grimace. But while Horton admonishes ideological imperialism in its early sections (the other jungle critters try to placate Horton into admitting the Who's don't really exist) the film later champions a unified outlook anyway as the citizens of Whoville manage to affirm their being to the larger world, reducing Horton from a testament to how competing ideals can coexist in productive capacity to the sum of its dubious what-ifs, e.g. "what if our world was in fact very tiny?" (So? Moreover, it already is?) As audiences are likely aware, concordance is a cinch if everyone upholds the same perspective, but if in fact that was Horton's goal in the first place, the film's only real success in that department comes with its single, zany, anime interlude. With regard to its purpose, no doubt all will be mystified.


Transporter 3 (2008)

Rating ... C (43)

Sequels may generate beaucoup de cash, but more often than not they just demonstrate how a series can fall a really long way in a really short time. The original Transporter inaugurated the franchise by knocking Jason Statham's refined ass-kicker down from his perch of socioeconomic superiority with a handful of well-placed explosives and a rocket launcher to his beach-front villa, necessitating the return to a moral stance that held values above rules. The second installment toed a similar line, prizing social affluence to the extent many would place on the financial boon displayed in the film, which saw Statham safeguard the privilege of a wealthy couple's child from hilariously lurid baddies and over-the-top, virtuoso combat. By contrast, the thematically bankrupt Transporter 3 offers no continuation of such societal issues, and with little at stake figuratively comes across as merely there - not quite the defining feature usually desired by an action flick.

Based on recent exploits, it seems to me that The Transporter could stand to learn a thing or two from its bald-headed kindred spirit Bruce Willis and his Die Hard quadrilogy. In the presence of a sequel most action series generally feel the need to up the ante to retain viewer attention, meaning that each new exploit tends to culminate in even more ludicrous, improbable carnage. 2007's Live Free or Die Hard in turn one-upped that conceit by selling out its effete hero, re-marketing Willis from the original Die Hard's every-man into a subversive take on the inflexibility of American foreign policy. The fact Willis fought against internet-hacking folks by destroying everything he came across, often in some spectacularly absurd method of vehicular chaos was not just baffling or outlandish but perhaps the ideal scenario to depict its subject's mounting desuetude.

Transporter 3, on the other hand, envisions things in simpler terms. Though both heroes are insurmountable when taking into account movie logic, the fact Statham's transporter is polished and au courant in every way Willis was battered and obsolete adds a snide facet to his inevitable victory, especially in the absence of overriding subtext. The film's action sequences lack punch; while Statham periodically acquires interesting new props for minor scuffles, the film's more extravagant car chase set-pieces employ borrowed tactics - namely, balancing a car on two wheels and breathing from tires while submerged. The antagonist figure's agenda is an arresting schism between pacifism and brutality but Transporter fails to elaborate this conflict or his relation to Statham's slick efficiency, opting instead to douse the proceedings with a ho-hum environment-over-business ethos. Faults considered, Transporter 3 may not be the weakest Statham vehicle but it's likely the tamest.


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